


The A-Team

by wheel_pen



Series: Miscellaneous One-Shots [2]
Category: The A-Team (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 15:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8406907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: Based on the 2010 movie. A newcomer joins the A-Team—expert hacker, crack shot, but maybe not the best sense of humor. Face seems smitten anyway. Just a few scenes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

 

            “…supplies, resources, manpower, we’re at your disposal,” General Brand assured the man who sat across the table from him, although there was a certain self-satisfaction about him that Hannibal didn’t care for. “And something else I think you’ll need.” He flipped a thin folder across the table.

            Hannibal glanced at the label on the tab without touching it. “My team can handle this alone,” he remarked.

            Brand had clearly anticipated he would say that, and didn’t believe it. “Who’s your computer expert?” he questioned rhetorically.

            “We can handle it,” Hannibal repeated flatly, even as Brand shook his head.

            “This is a high-level hacking operation, Colonel,” he countered. “You need someone specialized.” He pointed at the file. “She has one of the best computer minds I’ve ever seen.”

            Given Brand’s position as head of the Electronic Security division, Hannibal had to admit that assessment was impressive. He took the folder reluctantly and opened it. “Magdalena Gallo,” he read.

            “GY-oh,” Brand corrected.

            “Her service record seems to be missing a few key elements,” Hannibal noted dryly, “such as a record of her service.”

            Brand shrugged with a little smile. “Special Forces. All classified.”

            “Can she handle herself in the field?” he asked, tossing aside the useless file.

            “Yes,” the General told him, with absolute confidence.

            “My team is a well-oiled machine,” Hannibal reminded him. “That’s how we get things done. Will she blend in?”

            “Don’t worry, she won’t start crying because she broke a nail,” Brand snorted.

            “That wasn’t what I meant.”

            “Yes it was,” Brand judged. “Maggie blends. Unless you think your boys can’t handle a girl in the clubhouse?”

            Hannibal’s jaw tensed slightly. He wasn’t sure if he disliked General Brand’s assumptions or grudgingly respected his honesty—but he suspected it was the former. “We can handle it.”

            “Good.” Brand hesitated slightly. “She’s a little weird, though,” he warned suddenly.

            “We have Murdock,” Hannibal pointed out.

            Yes, Brand had witnessed the man washing an invisible car that morning. “Different weird,” he assessed. “Not exactly the life of the party. But reliable.”

            “That’s all I ask.”

**

            Hannibal pulled Face aside as they were packing up their gear for the next day’s trip. “Face, I want you to make sure Gallo feels… welcomed to the group.”

            Face blinked at his CO. “Welcomed?” he repeated blankly, as blank as their temporary teammate’s responses had been so far.

            Hannibal looked as if he shouldn’t have to explain this further, or at least didn’t want to. “Welcomed. Like she’s part of the team and not someone forced on us by an idiotic general who’s sat at a desk so long he’s forgotten what real field work looks like.”

            Face looked at him. “So… _not_ like that?” he surmised dryly.

            “Right,” Hannibal agreed. He grinned suddenly and Face felt buttering up coming along. “You’ve seen our new recruit. This is obviously a delicate situation. I can’t trust it to B.A. or Murdock.”

            Face recognized the buttering up and embraced it. He gazed speculatively at Gallo, who was packing studiously. “Well… she’s pretty,” he decided, “in kind of a butch way. She looks like I might have to beat her at arm wrestling first or something,” he predicted, running his hand through his hair to tame it a bit. “But… okay.”

            Hannibal grabbed his arm before he could go off like a heat-seeking missile. “I didn’t mean _that_ welcoming,” he clarified, rolling his eyes.

            “Oh.”

            “Just—be nice to her, okay?”

            “Oh. Sure,” Face agreed.

            “So we can get through the mission and send her back where she came from,” Hannibal added.

            “Right, I got it. Be nice.”

**

            “Hey, er, Maggie, you’re up early this morning,” Face observed cheerfully the next day.

            The woman blinked at him but said nothing. It was a habit that already got on his nerves. It wasn’t like she was being hostile; it was more like she didn’t have any kind of small talk machinery in her brain. Face was the master of small talk, and he just had the feeling she wasn’t impressed with that talent.

            “So… need any help with your gear?” he asked politely.

            “No,” she answered, with just a touch of frost. “I can handle everything I brought.”

            Face winced at his tactical error. Maybe as a woman in the military she was a little sensitive about carrying her own weight, literally as well as figuratively. Frankly they all tried to get B.A. to carry _all_ of their stuff so Face had stopped thinking about that kind of thing. He tried again, going for a more neutral topic. “Say, that computer you had last night was pretty sweet,” he complimented. “Is that the M-1225 field series?”

            “M-1317,” she corrected, uninterested in his interest. “Normally I use an M-1389 but it’s not durable enough for field use.”

            “M-13—huh, that’s pretty cool,” Face said, because it was. Now he was _actually_ interested. “I’ve never actually seen one up close. Maybe after we get going—“

            “I’m not supposed to share my gear,” she responded flatly. “Especially the sensitive computer equipment. General Brand’s orders.”

            “Oh. Right.” Well, orders were orders. But she could sound a _little_ sorry about it. He could have done a whole riff on the insensibility of commanding officers in general, as long as Hannibal didn’t pop up out of nowhere. The man had told him to be nice to her, but she wasn’t making it very easy—Face had certainly charmed hostiles before, but he wasn’t used to getting zero reaction at all. He looked around for inspiration and saw the camp stove nearby. “Um… hey, can I make you anything for breakfast?” he offered a little desperately. “One last hot meal before the ration packs start?” This seemed to get her attention—at least, she stared at him as if assessing his worthiness for the task, which was more response than he’d gotten before. “Um, we’ve got toast, sausage, eggs—“ He saw a flutter of interest. “Would you like some eggs?”

            “Yes,” she decided. “Will you make them for me?”

            Wasn’t that just what he’d offered? “Sure. How do you like them?”

            “Scrambled,” she reported. “Not too runny, not too dry.”

            “Okay, scrambled eggs it is,” Face agreed, preparing the pan.

            He should have expected she would do _something_ weird—like stand right beside him watching the eggs cook to make sure he did it right. Some welcoming gesture—she might as well have done it herself, he thought.

            “Not yet,” Maggie instructed, watching the egg clumps intensely. He tried to be patient, though frankly it was odd for a woman to be more interested in breakfast than in him. Frankly.

            “Just about right, don’t you think?” Face suggested, feeling slightly claustrophobic next to her.

            “We’ll see,” she answered. She was not making a joke.

            Face dumped the eggs onto a plate for her. “There you go! Just for you,” he announced, forcing good cheer into his voice.

            Maggie took the plate and move away finally, to the table. He had to admit that he held his breath a little as she took the first bite. “These are good,” she decided, sounding mildly surprised.

            “Thanks,” he answered, scrounging up something for himself. “Anytime.”

            After a few minutes spent making his own breakfast, Face felt ready to try again and sat down at the table across from her. She was almost done with the eggs and, quite possibly, with his usefulness to her, so he felt he had to start soon. “So, Maggie… is that short for something?” She blinked at him and he wondered if he’d already lost his opportunity. “Is the name Maggie short for a longer name, I mean?”

            “Yes,” she replied. “Magdalena.”

            “Magdalena,” he repeated charmingly. “That’s a beautiful name. It’s from the Bible, isn’t it?” Maybe she was religious. He could work with that. However, she merely cocked her head to the side, as if he’d said something that made no sense at all. Face sighed and ate his toast.

            But all was not yet lost. “Is Face short for something?” Maggie finally asked, and he almost choked on his food. It was the first non-essential question she had asked him.

            “Um, no, not really,” he explained, still coughing a little, “it’s just a nickname because—uh—“ What was he going to say? ‘Because I’m good-looking’? That was supposed to be one of those things that was self-explanatory. Or else some third person was supposed to chime in and call him a ‘pretty boy’ with affectionate mockery. It was just weird to have to say it himself. “Actually my real name is Templeton,” he revealed instead, wondering what her reaction would be. It was kind of an odd name, he knew—a whole lotta name, really, without many good nicknames, and people tended to make jokes about effete British people or their butlers at this point.

            “Templeton,” she said, though not in a tone of disbelief or amusement. It was more like she was trying it out. “Templeton. Like the rat in _Charlotte’s Web_.”

            He almost choked again. “Excuse me?” This was definitely the first time such a connection had been made, and Face wasn’t sure how to take it.

            “Templeton was the name of the rat in _Charlotte’s Web_ ,” Maggie repeated, in case he didn’t get it earlier. “He was good at finding things, too.”

            Face sat back in his chair. “Huh. I guess so.” He decided to call it a compliment. Hannibal would be pleased with his progress.

**

            “But _how_ are they finding us?!” Face demanded, as though any of them would know. Hannibal crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the van, shaded from the desert sun while his teammate burned off his frustration a few yards away. “No communication, no one’s seen us, clean equipment—“

            “GPS,” Murdock suggested.

            Hannibal started to roll his eyes at the random comment, then he saw that Face had done a double-take—he seemed _interested_. “What?”

            “Global Positioning Satellites,” Murdock explained, like Face didn’t know what GPS was. “They’re up in the sky and they track signals from electronic devices.”

            “ _What_ electronic device, fool?” B.A. growled. “He just said all the equipment was clean.”

            “It must have been planted on us,” Face decided, in a burst of inspiration. “Everyone check your pockets, shoes—“

            Hannibal checked, though more calmly than the others, who were practically ripping their clothes to shreds as Face’s urgency infected them. The only one who wasn’t doing anything was Maggie, who sat in the van tapping on her laptop. Finding nothing on himself, Face turned on her. “Maggie! Is that computer clean?” he snapped.

            “Yes,” she told him, without looking up.

            “Get out here and check your pockets!” Face always got bossy when he was upset about something. “Murdock, check her computer.”

            “It’s clean,” Maggie repeated, setting the laptop aside and climbing out of the van. Far too slowly for Face’s liking she started to turn out her pockets. “What are you looking for?”

            “A tracking device!” he almost shouted. Fortunately the vast stretch of desert swallowed much of his volume, and Maggie didn’t seem to care anyway. “I want to know if you have a tracking device on you!”

            “I do,” Maggie confirmed.

            Everyone froze, staring at her. Then Hannibal slowly came around the end of the van to face her. “You have a tracking device?”

            “Yes.” She didn’t seem to attach any particular significance to this revelation.

            Hannibal smoothly slid between Maggie and Face, who looked like he was tensing up to pounce. “A tracking device that’s activated and being tracked by someone right now?” he checked, his tone growing colder.

            “Yes.”

            “I knew it, I f-----g knew it!” Face exploded and Hannibal leaned into him a little more to keep him back. Although he certainly felt like doing whatever Face wanted to do to her. “We’ve been set up by Brand! All along he’s been tracking us through _her_ —“

            Face took disloyalty very hard. But then so did the others. “You been spyin’ on us for Brand?” B.A. asked Maggie menacingly, and Hannibal considered repositioning himself.

            “No,” Maggie replied, with a surprising lack of defensiveness.

            “Explain yourself, soldier,” Hannibal snapped at her, his patience wearing thin.

            “I always have a tracking device on me,” Maggie told them. “I have to be tracked at all times.”

            “Like a fancy car,” Murdock commented.

            “What? Why?”

            “It’s either be tracked all the time,” Maggie went on, “or go back to prison.”

            This set Face off all over again. “ _Prison_? What? What were you in prison for?”

            “I killed my CO,” she revealed.

            Hannibal raised an eyebrow. “Please tell me you knew about that,” Face begged him. He declined to answer.

            “We’ve already got one crazy, Hannibal,” B.A. observed. “Least Murdock ain’t killed anyone.”

            “First time for everything!” Murdock chirped.

            “I don’t want to go back to prison,” Maggie volunteered. She looked mildly distressed by the idea and Hannibal pressed the advantage.

            “Brand knows about this?”

            Maggie nodded. “He said not to mention it.”

            “Great! Perfect!” Face exclaimed sarcastically, still behind Hannibal’s shoulder. “Are you _really_ that insane, or _really_ that stupid?”

            Hannibal nudged him in a ‘back off’ gesture as Maggie’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I’m not stupid,” she corrected in a steely tone.

            “Oh, sorry, have I offended you?” Face snapped.

            Hannibal shot him a look and he finally dropped back, pacing the cracked earth restlessly. “The tracking device,” he ordered, holding out his hand.

            Maggie stretched out her arm, hand empty, and for a second Hannibal didn’t care whether she understood or not, his temper flared just like Face’s. Then she pointed to a spot on her forearm. “It’s right here.”

            “Subcutaneous,” he realized suddenly.

            “Like a fancy pet,” Murdock corrected himself.

            “Hannibal, this is messed up,” B.A. opined. “Who sticks a tracking device _in_ someone’s arm?”

            “The US government,” Hannibal replied dryly. “In special cases.” And Maggie was definitely a special case.

            “How come _I_ never got one?” Murdock wondered enviously.

            “We’ll leave her somewhere,” Face suggested with perhaps too much eagerness, bumping Hannibal’s shoulder again. “Tie her up, leave her, get the discs, get them back to HQ before Brand knows what’s going on.”

            It seemed like a reasonable plan, though Hannibal had to admit Maggie had been an asset to the team so far. “I don’t want to be left,” Maggie protested, with a slight frown. “I want to stay with you guys.”

            “That’s sweet,” Murdock offered, while B.A. snorted and Face launched into a counterattack.

            “Of course you do! That way your buddy Brand can keep trying to kill us! You don’t even have to call him to let him know where to send the bomb!” Hannibal’s shoulder was getting sore from playing gatekeeper—and his passionate second in command was likely to make a movement soon that Maggie would consider threatening. Which would probably result in serious injury to Face—and anyone who was in the way.

            Indeed, Maggie glared at him for a moment—then pulled out her knife. Four people reacted to defend themselves and contain her, but it was her _own_ arm she pressed the point against.

            “Why didn’t anyone tell me we were having a blood sacrifice?” Murdock asked, jumping into the van. “I’ll get the schnapps!” Everyone else ignored him as they moved to restrain Maggie and yank the knife away from her.

            “What are you _doing_?”

            She seemed to find it perfectly simple. “I want to stay with you,” she stated. “You said I couldn’t stay with the tracking device. So, I’ll take it out.”

            “That’s hardcore, man,” B.A. muttered, shaking his head.

            “Is this some kind of _trick_?” Face sputtered suspiciously.

            “No.”

            Hannibal narrowed his eyes, trying to assess her sincerity. “What about prison?” he asked.

            Her eyes took on a faraway look for a moment, as if she were asking herself the same question. Then she looked back at him. “They’ll have to catch me first.”

            “Okay,” he decided. He let her go and backed off, and B.A. let her have the knife. She started to resume cutting herself.

            “Wait a minute!” Face insisted. He stared between Hannibal and Maggie, his commander’s look warning him not to make trouble now that he was satisfied with Maggie’s loyalty. But the entire situation was giving _him_ trouble. “Um—uh—maybe _I_ should do that,” he proposed, holding his hand out for Maggie’s knife. It was probably the first time an offer to cut someone’s arm open was meant as a peace offering.

            “ _I’ll_ do it,” Hannibal countered. He was the one in charge, after all. “And we’re gonna do it right. Murdock, get the—“

            The other man suddenly popped out of the van. “Sorry, couldn’t find any schnapps, boss. Just rubbing alcohol.”

            “Close enough,” Hannibal assured him. Moments later Maggie was lying on the ground with B.A. holding down the arm in question and Hannibal kneeling beside her, flaming the knife to sterilize it. “This is gonna hurt like h—l,” he warned her. “You two hold the rest of her,” he added to Face and Murdock. “I don’t want my neck broken while I’m performing surgery.” Murdock grabbed her ankles dutifully while Face took her other arm. “Ready?”

            “Yes,” Maggie replied, seemingly without concern.

            Hannibal poured the rubbing alcohol over the cut she’d already made. She didn’t cry out, but her whole body jerked dangerously. “Hold her!” Hannibal snapped, applying the knife, and Murdock threw himself across her legs while Face found himself pinning her down chest to chest.

            “So…” he began, their faces uncomfortably close. “Sorry I called you stupid earlier.”

            “’S okay,” Maggie assured him, teeth clenched.

            “Almost got it,” Hannibal announced.

            “I mean, I don’t think you’re stupid at all,” Face insisted. “You know a h—l of a lot about computers. Why’d you kill your CO?” he asked, unable to help himself any longer.

            “He burned my eggs,” Maggie ground out, twisting underneath him.

            “Makes perfect sense,” Murdock agreed.

            “Got it!” Hannibal told them, stepping back with a bloody black chip on the end of the knife. “Wrap her up.” He and Murdock examined the chip while B.A. and Face tended to the wound.

            “Do you think she needs stitches?” Face asked the other man.

            “Nah,” B.A. assessed. “Just tie it real good.”

            “This is an expensive piece of hardware,” Hannibal decided, holding the chip up to the light. There was a certain amount of admiration in his tone.

            “What should we do with it, boss?” Face asked. B.A. mimed snapping it in two but the other man shook his head. “We break it, they’ll know she’s been made.”

            Hannibal smirked a little bit as he considered the possibilities. “B.A., Murdock,” he decided, “get me one of those jackrabbits.”

**

            “Wake up, Maggie, I think I got something to say to you.”

            Maggie looked up from the pan of eggs Face was scrambling for her in confusion. “I _am_ —“

            “It’s late September and I really should be back in school.”

            “What are you talking about?” Maggie asked.

            “All you did was wreck my bed,” Face continued to sing, scraping the eggs onto a plate, “and in the morning kick me in the head. Oh Maggie I couldn’t have tried anymore!”

            Maggie spooned the eggs into her mouth while watching Face with the kind of wariness people usually reserved for encounters with Murdock.

            “You led me away from home, just to save you from being alone,” Face went on. “You stole my heart, I couldn’t leave you if I tried!” He stopped here, to utter silence. “Guess you never heard that song before, huh?” he surmised.

            Realization dawned. “Oh, you were _singing_ ,” Maggie understood, and his expression fell.

            Snickers erupted from beyond the doorway, where the others could no longer contain themselves. Face lobbed a dishtowel at them good-naturedly. “Shut up!”

            “I was starting to wonder when we’d gotten a dog,” Hannibal cracked. Murdock yowled along by way of example.

            “Face, I don’t care _what_ you’re singin’,” B.A. allowed, “as long as you’re cookin’ at the same time.”

            “No way, cooking’s _my_ bag,” Murdock protested, and Face backed away from the stove. “Face can’t get _all_ the good jobs. Next he’ll want to clean the bathrooms, too.”

            “No, I promise,” Face told him solemnly, “that job is _all_ yours, pal.”

**

            “Step right up, step right up for the main event, ladies and gentlemen!” Face announced in a tone of true showmanship, gathering soldiers around him in the dusty heat of the late afternoon. “Our challenger today is Leon, from the 25th Armored Division!” The muscular young man in fatigues raised his arms to the cheers of his comrades, though he seemed rather mystified by the elaborate build-up. “And, our champion, a master of multiple martial arts”—Murdock scurried around collecting bets and repeating everything Face said to create an echo effect—“known in her old unit as ‘the Ghost’ for her ninja-like skills—Magdalena Gallo!” There were cheers from the people who had bet on her, but Maggie was unmoved by them and merely stood there.

            “I know my judo and tae kwon do, too,” Leon assured them, bouncing around to warm up. He seemed like a nice guy, competitive but not an a-s the way some of them could be.

            Murdock took over the announcing duties, working the crowd up with metaphors that made no sense, while Face rubbed Maggie’s shoulders and tried to explain the rules to her. “Okay, this is just a friendly competition, so don’t hurt him, alright?” he told her. “Take a few knocks, draw it out a little—these guys have been out in the desert a long time and deserve a good show.”

            “Why?” Maggie asked, even though he just got done saying why.

            “Because I said so,” he clarified with a sigh. “And, don’t hit him in the b—ls. You don’t wanna get a reputation. You good? You ready? You psyched?”

            Maggie blinked at him. “Will this be starting soon? I have some code to debug.”

            “No, see, right now, you’re gonna debug _him_ ,” Face tried to explain, using terms she might understand better. His effort appeared wasted. “Yes, we’re gonna start soon. But draw it out. Don’t just beat him down right away. And don’t hurt him. You got that?”

            “You said that already,” Maggie pointed out flatly.

            The crowd was chanting now, alternating between the names of the two combatants. “Whoa, Tiger, slow down, go easy on him now,” Face said in a louder voice, acting as though he were holding Maggie back. “Are you ready?” he asked the crowd, who shouted back. “ _Are you ready?_ Go!” He pushed Maggie to the center, where she met Leon and the fight began.

            Hannibal did not officially allow such displays, of course. But him standing a little off to the side, watching with mild interest, seemed to indicate tacit approval. And no doubt he would also want a share of the profits. They used to do the same with B.A., but the bets were usually a lot lower unless some other unit _also_ had an aggressive guy built like a tank. Unlike with B.A., however, you couldn’t let yourself get too caught up in the fight and start yelling encouragement to Maggie along the lines of, “Smash his face in!” Because she really _would_. And that wasn’t the spirit they were going for.

            An enlisted man tapped Hannibal on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir, but the General wants to see you.” Regretfully Hannibal left the fight—Maggie was doing quite well at making it look slightly difficult—and headed to the General’s tent.

            Maggie staggered backward from a blow and Face caught her. “Okay, you can be a _little_ harder on him,” he allowed, shoving her back up. So she was.

            A few minutes later Hannibal strode back across the yard to the knot of soldiers. “Wrap it up, Maggie!” he shouted.

            “New mission?” Face asked with interest. There was a thunk and Leon hit the ground. He seemed content to stay there for a while. “And the winner and continuing champion, Maggie ‘the Ghost’ Gallo!” he announced loudly, grabbing Maggie’s hand and holding it aloft before the cheering crowd.

            “That doesn’t make any sense,” Maggie told him.

            “Quiet. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much! Go see Hannibal,” he told her. “We have a new mission.”

**

            Face became aware of the delightful warmth of another person curled up beside him, though he had enough experience with sleeping in the field to double-check that the other person was female first—smelled feminine and clean, squishy in the right places. The fact that he couldn’t clearly remember her name was pretty low on his list of things to worry about and he started to nuzzle her neck.

            Suddenly there was a pain in his arm and then he found himself flipped through the air, landing not on the floor but on another soft-ish substance, though part of it yelped loudly and moved under him. Face immediately went on the defensive, adrenaline surging through his body as he tried to recall the details of the current mission.

            Then he remembered that he was on vacation, which made everything confusing again. Hannibal and B.A. bursting into the room and flipping on the light didn’t help matters.

            “What’s going on?” Hannibal snapped, surveying the scene with displeasure.

            “Why were you kissing me?” Maggie asked in a puzzled tone, looking at Face.

            “Why are you in my bed?!” he demanded in return.

            “Why are you in _my_ bed?” Murdock asked prudishly, pulling the sheet up to his neck.

            Face turned to look at him, then jerked backwards in surprise and tumbled off the edge of the bed onto the floor. “What’s this fool got on his face?” B.A. growled, referring to the light green substance spread over Murdock like a beauty mask gone to seed.

            “I think Face’s question is the best,” Hannibal judged, so the younger man repeated it, in tones of increasing freaked-outness.

            “ _Why are you in my bed?!_ ”

            “I don’t know,” Maggie shrugged without concern. “Maybe I was sleepwalking again.”

            “I think you can go back to your couch now, Maggie,” Hannibal decided, and she got up without protest.

            “Okay. It’s too noisy to sleep in here anyway,” she judged.

            Once she had left, everyone turned to stare at the man sitting on the floor, who buried his face in his hands. It seemed to be rather red around the edges.

            “I’d like to hear the answer to Maggie’s question next,” Hannibal announced, crossing his arms over his chest expectantly.

            “What am I _supposed_ to do when I wake up with a-a _girl_ in my arms?!” Face sputtered. “It’s instinct!”

            Hannibal rolled his eyes but the other man was now turning slightly green, so likely he was punishing himself enough. And speaking of people turning green—“How about _my_ question, Hannibal?” B.A. insisted, glaring at Murdock.

            “It’s a light mint frosting,” Murdock replied, licking some off a finger. “In case I want a snack later!”

            Hannibal decided to ignore that. “Okay, B.A., why don’t you get some sleep and I’ll take over the watch for the rest of the night,” he offered, snapping off the light in the bedroom Face and Murdock shared.

            “Don’t I get _my_ question answered?” Murdock protested, above B.A.’s mutterings about ‘green-skinned fools.’ “I forgot what it was, though.”

            He looked to Face for help but the other man just crawled into his now-tainted bed, rubbing his arm where Maggie had flipped him. “Go to sleep,” he said sourly.

**

            The little cabin had only two bedrooms, but it was right on the beach and Face had managed to get it fully stocked with all the necessities. They weren’t so anti-social that they actually spent all their vacations together; but this was more of a breather between jobs than a real vacation. And Face was afraid that he had now made it terminally awkward between Maggie and himself. He got up early and sneaked past her sleeping form to go jogging along the beach, then crept around to the front door when he saw that she was practicing her martial arts in the back.

            “Can’t avoid her forever!” Murdock cackled, popping up out of nowhere, in a goofy hat, when Face got out of his shower.

            “I’m not avoiding anyone,” he lied, “except _you_.”

            Of course, the moment Face wandered into the kitchen for breakfast he saw the one person he had hoped to, er, _not_ see, digging in the fridge. He steeled himself to face the consequences of the bizarre confluence of events of the night before, fully prepared to concede that no one was at fault. They just needed to clear the air, get rid of this tension before it interfered with a mission and Hannibal had to lecture them about it like schoolchildren. Face stepped up to the side of the fridge and cleared his throat. “Uh, Maggie—“

            She turned around and thrust a carton of eggs in his face. “I would like some eggs,” she announced. “Will you make me some eggs?” She stared him straight in the eye with no discomfort, and Face realized he shouldn’t have bothered to worry about her reaction.

            “Sure, I’ll make you some eggs,” he sighed, taking the carton from her.

            Maggie was particular about her eggs. She knelt on a chair at the breakfast bar, leaning over the counter at a dangerous angle so that her face was practically hanging over the frying pan Face worked at. “They’re still too runny,” she judged.

            “They aren’t too runny,” he countered, lifting the pan off the heat for a moment. “It’s the cheese in them.”

            “Right there,” Maggie insisted, pointing to a specific clump of scrambled egg. “It’s not dry enough.”

            “Get your fingers out of the eggs,” Face chided. “I know how to cook your eggs. Who always cooks your eggs?”

            “You do,” Maggie agreed, though this didn’t sound like confidence.

            “That’s right, I do. And I always get them right, don’t I?”

            “Mostly.”

            “Mostly?” Face repeated, feigning hurt. “When did I last get them wrong?”

            “January 7th, in Shanghai.”

            Face scoffed at her. “I didn’t get them _wrong_. I just had poor-quality eggs to work with. I don’t think those were chicken eggs Murdock found. Morning, boss,” he added as Hannibal made himself known in the kitchen.

            “Stop, stop, they’re done!” Maggie insisted.

            “Fifteen seconds more,” he countered, rolling the eggs around in the pan.

            “No, no, they’re done now!”

            “Are you _sure_? I’m not really sure…”

            Hannibal peered into the fridge, looking for breakfast inspiration and secretly relieved that the mishap last night hadn’t caused any awkward feelings between his team members. “You want some eggs, Hannibal?” Face offered in a light tone. “I think these are too done for Maggie.”

            “No, I _want_ them!” she persisted, snatching at the plate. Hannibal wisely declined, not wanting to get his arm broken in an egg-related attack.

**

            Maggie screamed at the top of her lungs. Hannibal glanced up from his book and determined that it was a scream of joy, of a sort, as Murdock tried to drown her in the ocean. Then Murdock yelped as Maggie tried to drown _him_. Then B.A. growled and tried to drown _both_ of them—then Face when the latter popped up to splash him. Hannibal went back to reading his book in the lounge chair on the deck, well away from any potential drowning attempts. Good times.

**

            This time when Face rolled over, there was something cold and wet in his bed. “Relax,” he heard Hannibal say when he started to react, and Face glanced over the lump to see his commanding officer sitting up in the other bed, the faint odor of cigar smoke competing with the smell of fish.

            “What _is_ this?” Face demanded, pulling back part of the blanket. “Oh no—Hannibal, I swear I didn’t—“ he began when he saw Maggie lying there asleep.

            “I know, I put her there,” the other man revealed enigmatically, his expression hard to read in the moonlight.

            “Why?” Face asked in confusion. “And… why is she all wet?”

            “She sleepwalked right into the ocean,” Hannibal explained with a shrug. “Didn’t wake her up. I thought she would be safer here.”

            “Hmm, _safer_ ,” Face snorted, turning his back on both of them. Well, at least it wasn’t as bad as the time Murdock had dropped live sardines in his bed.

**

            The five of them stood outside the abandoned boxcar, time growing short and options running out. “I don’t condone torture,” Hannibal said, his mouth set in a grim line. The others knew there was a regretful ‘but’ coming. “But there _is_ an immediate threat, and civilian lives are at stake.”

            The others nodded understandingly, though some of them had come to this conclusion faster. “You want me to rough him up some, Hannibal?” B.A. suggested. “See if he talks then?”

            But the older man was shaking his head. “No, he’s a trained operative, I doubt that will break him.”

            “We could always trap him in the boxcar with Murdock,” Face put in, trying to inject a little levity into the situation.

            “I’ve got some new knock-knock jokes,” the pilot confirmed.

            Hannibal smirked half-heartedly. “Sorry, not fast enough.” He paused a moment, then voiced the decision he’d come to earlier. “No, if it’s got to be done— _I’ll_ do it.”

            “I could do it.”

            Everyone turned to look at Maggie. She seemed serious enough, and no one doubted her abilities in the field. Hannibal flashed back to her empty file, wondering yet again what exactly had been purged from it. “Do you have any experience with hostile interrogation?”

            “Yes,” she confirmed. “I have a certificate.”

            Face blinked at her. “You can get a certificate in torture?”

            “Is it a correspondence course?” Murdock wanted to know.

            “I’d prefer no permanent damage,” Hannibal explained, “and it has to be fast. Can you do that?”

            “Yes.”

            “How?” Face quizzed, but Murdock took his shoulder.

            “You don’t want to know,” he said sagely.

            Hannibal ran the idea through his mind. There were several unknowns. But time and options were not, as mentioned, abundant. “Okay,” he decided, stepping back and yanking open the boxcar door. Maggie hopped up into the dim light cast by a battery-powered lantern that vaguely illuminated their prisoner, who was still tied to a chair.

            “Hey.” She looked back down at Face. “Call if you need any help, okay?” She gave him a curious look and shut the door.

            For a few moments the men stood in uncomfortable silence, each trying not to imagine what she was planning to do. “I just don’t know about this, Hannibal,” Face commented doubtfully. “I mean, you know Maggie, she might _think_ she could do it, but—“

            Suddenly a scream pierced the air—and it wasn’t Maggie. Hannibal put a few more feet between himself and the boxcar, resisting the urge to rip the door open and see what was going on. Face had nothing else to say on the subject.

            The screams continued, changing in pitch and volume, growing hoarse, breaking, mixing with sobs. Face leaned against a pile of junk in the yard, pale as a ghost. Murdock stared off into space. B.A. looked as though he was trying to take it like a man. Hannibal chomped his cigar hard.

            It seemed like an eternity, but it was really only about two minutes until Maggie pulled the door back open. “He’s ready to talk,” she announced flatly, climbing out. Hannibal stepped in with some trepidation, not certain what he would find.

            “You don’t look well,” Maggie observed to Face.

            “I’m okay,” he assured her. Especially now that the screaming had stopped. “Er, are _you_ okay?”

            “Of course.”

            Hannibal stuck his head around the opening in the boxcar. “Staples Center,” he announced. “Murdock, fire up the chopper. Face, alert the local PD. B.A., help me get him to the car.” They all snapped into motion. “Maggie, you ride in the chopper,” he decided. “I don’t think this guy needs to see any more of you.”

**

            The Army camp outside Baghdad was a chaotic hive of activity in the early evening, with trucks and platoons moving in and out and off-duty soldiers milling around making the best of their patched-together accommodations. Music of various styles blared from speakers and more portable instruments, soldiers huddled around supply crates playing cards, and there were several impromptu games of basketball going on, using a variety of improvised baskets. Hannibal’s team had staked out one particular patch of dry ground that was little different from every other patch of dry ground in the camp, but they had made it their own with a few choice accessories. B.A. worked diligently on a bike while Murdock labored over a gas grill and Maggie sat on a crate tapping on her laptop. Face, meanwhile, was taking it easy, sitting in a lawn chair with his feet in a kiddie pool of tepid water, sipping on a beer. No need to exert himself, after all.

            Murdock poured the gunpowder from a shotgun shell into the grill and jumped back as a fireball burst forth. “How do you want your steak, B.A.?” he inquired cheerfully, batting out a small flame that singed his garish Hawaiian shirt. “Burned, I hope,” he added, turning a black and crispy piece of meat over with tongs.

            “Burn it, man,” B.A. confirmed. “Burn it like it’s d—ned.”

            “Face?” Murdock asked, going for another shotgun shell. Maybe _two_ this time.

            The new, even larger fireball reflected off Face’s sunglasses. “Nuke it,” he allowed.

            “I want mine very pink, or even red,” Maggie called.

            “Don’t worry, I got it on the cold side of the grill,” Murdock assured her. “It’ll be nice and raw.”

            “No way, fry it,” Face countered. “No more eating raw meat, missy.”

            “It’s _Maggie_ ,” Maggie corrected, with a slightly peeved tone.

            “I know your name.”

            “And I want my steak rare.”

            “You’re gonna get a tapeworm,” Face told her. “Make it _slightly_ less charred than an atom bomb test site,” he ordered Murdock. There was a pause. “Is she sneaking up behind me with a knife?” he asked the others.

            “She thinkin’ about it, man,” B.A. chuckled, seeing Maggie’s frown.

            “Magnum 44, come over here,” Face coaxed genially. “Come sit where I can see you.”

            “Who wants secret sauce?” Murdock asked, hoisting a carton of anti-freeze.

            “Face does,” Maggie replied pertly, sitting down on the closed cooler that was near his chair.

            “I’m hurt,” he claimed. “You wanna paralyze me or something?”

            “It’s just a _little_ paralysis,” Murdock claimed, “just for seasoning.”

            “I have now hacked into the Bulgarian Housing Department,” Maggie announced, staring at her laptop with something akin to satisfaction.

            “Ooh, that could be useful,” Face replied with interest, though he didn’t move. “You know, no one ever thinks to look in Bulgaria.”

            “Wonder why,” B.A. muttered negatively.

            “Visitors,” Murdock singsonged, seeing three people approach with determination.

            The woman in the group stopped directly in front of Face’s pool and waited for him to recognize her. After a second he pulled off his sunglasses. “Huh. Wow,” he remarked, grinning. The other members of his team could see that it was a wary grin, though.

            “Yeah,” the woman replied, also smiling, but with her arms crossed defensively over her chest. Murdock caught B.A.’s eye and mouthed ‘ex’ to him; the other man nodded.

            “Caroline,” Face went on, unwinding the wet towel from around his head. “Caroline Wilson.”

            “You remembered. Well done, Lieutenant,” she answered sarcastically.

            “Lieutenant?” he repeated in surprise. “What, is this where I just say ‘Lieutenant’ to you, too, and we act like we don’t know each other?”

            “It’s Captain, actually,” she corrected.

            “Captain? Wow.” His tone was somehow both charming and obnoxious at the same time. “So I guess you said ‘no’ to the house and the kids and all, huh? Just shootin’ right up the ladder, huh?”

            “No, baby, I just said ‘no’ to _you_ ,” she shot back saucily, but Face was unoffended.

            “Sit down,” he offered, referring to the second lawn chair near the pool. “You want a beer? Have a beer.” He tapped Maggie’s knee and she stood, taking the laptop with her, so he could open the cooler between her legs and grab a beer for his guest. Then she sat back down on it.

            “Who’s this?” Captain Wilson asked, nodding at Maggie as she cracked open her beer. The other members of the team she was familiar with, if only by reputation.

            Face seemed confused by her question. “Maggie? You don’t know—Oh, you don’t know Maggie,” he conceded. “Maggie’s been here forever!”

            “Well, the last time I saw you was forever ago,” Wilson reminded him, not at all wistful about those days.

            “Say hello to the nice lady, Maggie,” Face told his teammate, and Maggie finally looked up from the computer and gave the other woman a once-over.

            “Hello,” she said flatly, going back to her screen immediately.

            “Charming,” Wilson remarked.

            “Say, did you take my Steely Dan CD?” Face asked her randomly.

            Wilson seemed to roll her eyes behind her oversized sunglasses. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

            “We listened to that, like, nine times in a row, remember?” Face reminded her, in a teasing but pleasant sort of way. “We were drinking that horrible wine, and we were doing something else… What was it?” Wilson sat up straighter and refused to engage, acting like she was bored with this tangent. “We were in a bedroom, but I can’t quite—Do _you_ remember?”

            “The only thing I remember is leaving,” Wilson responded, with a poisonous sweetness, “and it’s my fondest memory of you.”

            Her tone was light but the words cut, and for an instant, just an instant, a look of genuine hurt flashed across his face. If Wilson even noticed it, she didn’t acknowledge it; but his teammates did. Behind Wilson Murdock set off another fireball, a menacing expression on his face that made Wilson’s two uniformed escorts nervous.

            “But I didn’t come all this way to reminisce,” Wilson went on, her voice both more professional and more passionate—it was obvious her true love was her work. “If you have _any_ thought of getting those plates, just put it out of your mind.”

            Face blinked at her in genuine confusion. “Plates? What?”

            She obviously didn’t believe him. “Those plates are _my_ responsibility, it’s _my_ a-s on the line,” she snapped. “ _I’m_ gonna be the one to get them, and you’d better not get in my way.”

            “Why are you threatening me over dishes?” Face asked, utterly mystified. “I don’t remember keeping any. The espresso machine, yes, but that was really more of a joint—“

            Wilson stood, tired of the games she clearly thought he was playing. “Just tell your beloved Colonel Smith to stay out of Baghdad,” she ordered.

            Face blinked up at her, no longer processing the words that were nonsensical to him. “I forgot how beautiful you are,” he remarked suddenly. She turned and walked off with her two assistants.

            Murdock, who had slipped into Wilson’s vacated chair, started strumming his guitar in a familiar chord. “All you did was wreck my bed…”

            “And in the morning kick me in the head,” Face chimed in, growing steadily louder. “Oh Maggie I couldn’t have tried anymore!”

            “Captain Caroline Wilson,” Maggie stated, looking up from her computer with a dangerous gleam in her eye. “I have her DOD file. Should I erase it?” Face slowly pushed the laptop shut, shaking his head and gazing after the departing captain. He appreciated the gesture, though.

**

            The back door of the van opened and Maggie scrambled in, her orange jumpsuit fluorescent in the dim light. Hannibal took her hand and for a moment their eyes met—he was half afraid of what he would find in them, and the slightly glazed, unfocused look didn’t comfort him. Face and Murdock jumped in behind her and slammed the doors shut. “Let’s go,” Hannibal ordered B.A., who threw the van in gear and hit the gas.

            “You should’ve seen the hole they had her in, Hannibal,” Face said angrily, yanking off the fake nose and eyebrows that had gotten him past the authorities. “It was about _this_ big and pitch black—“

            “Gave me the heebie-jeebies,” Murdock agreed, removing his elaborate wig.

            “You thought they would treat her _nicely_ in prison?” Hannibal asked, a flinty tone in his voice, and Face looked away. Especially when Maggie had killed another inmate—in self-defense, she said, but you never knew what was really going on in Maggie’s head. She was lucky it was a US prison she’d been held in for six months, and not some of the other places they’d seen. Hannibal turned to the woman who was sitting on the floor of the van, her knees drawn up under her chin, as contained as if she were still in her prison cell. “Soldier—are you okay?”

            She straightened at that, her eyes clearing somewhat. “Sir, yes sir!” Maggie replied crisply, and Hannibal clapped her on the shoulder as relief flooded through them.

            “Good,” he told her. “Here’s a laptop. See what you can do with it.”

            She started pecking away at the keyboard, hesitantly at first, then faster and faster, her eyes glued to the screen. As soon as they were past the security checkpoint Hannibal climbed over the seats to sit in the front and confer with B.A., and Murdock climbed into the back seat to root through the duffel bag on the floor.

            “Do you have my clothes?” Face asked him eagerly. “I _need_ to get out of this uniform.” Army Rangers uniform, yes (though who knew when he’d be wearing one of _those_ again); prison guard uniform, no.

            Murdock pulled out the jeans and t-shirt with a flourish. “And here we have the latest designer collection,” he announced dramatically. “Yes, Bob, this season wrinkles are definitely _in_!” Face actually laughed at the comment, he was so glad to be back in his teammate’s company. “And for the ladies—“ Murdock went on, fishing out more clothing, “—we have our very exclusive line of exotic _denim_.” He managed to pronounce the word in a very French way. “No one knows the secret manufacturing process, though rumors suggest it involves fan-tailed wasps and—“

            Face left Murdock nattering to himself and crawled over to Maggie with her clothes. Not that it was easy getting dressed while sitting in the back of a van, but they had managed such feats in even worse circumstances. Face took particular pride in his ability to dress quickly in strange situations, especially in the dark with an angry husband pounding on the door. “Here,” he said, sitting down beside Maggie. She didn’t really acknowledge him, but that was typical for her. He leaned back against the wall of the van, watching her type and just enjoying the fact that they had been reunited after six months in separate prisons.

            “They wouldn’t let me have a computer,” she said suddenly. Face took that as a similar appreciative statement from her and put his arm around her shoulders. She turned just slightly in his direction, which he knew, somehow, meant ‘thanks for rescuing me.’

**

            The sound of a motor outside drew everyone’s attention and B.A. peered out the grimy window. Then he went back to working on his bike. “Just Hannibal,” he told the others.

            “I hope he brought my saffron,” Murdock proclaimed from the camp stove he was laboring over. “My chicken tiki Murdock will be no good without saffron!”

            “You think I’m eatin’ somethin’ with the word _tiki_ in it, you think again,” B.A. warned the other man.

            “I’d be more concerned about the _Murdock_ part,” Face smirked from his seat hunched over some blueprints.

            The warehouse door slid open and Hannibal was dramatically silhouetted against the setting sun for a moment—the man knew a good photo op when he saw one. Of course, he would’ve looked better without an armload of groceries.

            “Where’s my saffron, boss?” Murdock pestered, scampering over to take the bags. Hannibal noted dryly that none of the others had offered to help him, so he didn’t chide his slightly off-kilter pilot for dumping the bags’ contents all over the nearest workbench. He swung the last item he carried off his shoulder and walked it to the center of the room where the light was better.

            “What’s that, boss?” Face finally asked, squinting at the plastic-covered object on a hanger.

            “The final piece of the plan,” Hannibal announced, with great confidence. He _had_ to sound confident—he knew this part wasn’t going to go over well.

            “Hmm.” Murdock picked up something from the bags that looked suspiciously like a case of make-up squares. He pried it open, tested their texture with a finger, then licked the substance. “Perfect!” he decided, hopping back to the stove.

            Meanwhile, Hannibal yanked the plastic away and proudly displayed his find. “It looks like a dress,” Face commented with confusion, drawing everyone’s attention.

            “Very astute,” Hannibal noted. “It’s for the party tonight. I thought it would be more appropriate than a tuxedo.”

            “For _who_?” Face sputtered.

            “I ain’t wearin’ no dress, Hannibal,” B.A. stated flatly, with a threatening undertone.

            “I would, but turquoise isn’t really my color,” Murdock injected from the stove, where he was adding a liberal dose of concealer to the chicken. “Makes me look sallow.”

            “Well _I’m_ not wearing it!” Face insisted, with something close to panic in his tone.

            Hannibal waited until they’d finished protesting, having only rolled his eyes a couple times. “It’s for _Maggie_ ,” he pointed out. Sometimes his brilliant team was not so bright.

            Everyone turned slowly to stare at the fifth person in the room, who finally looked up from the laptop she’d been pecking at. “A dress? Why?” she asked.

            “Yeah, boss, nobody’s gonna believe Maggie’s a—“ Hannibal waited for it, the look of dawning understanding on even Murdock’s face. “Ohhhhh…”

            Attitudes immediately changed. “Ha ha, you have to wear a _dress_!” Face mocked her.

            “Just gonna look _wrong_ ,” B.A. muttered.

            “I don’t want to wear a dress!” Maggie protested. “Why can’t, um, _Face_ wear it?”

            “Hey!”

            “He _does_ own the most personal grooming products,” Murdock observed, adding in a “Sha-zam!” for no apparent reason.

            “Maggie’s wearing the dress, the rest of us are wearing tuxes,” Hannibal ordered, silencing them. Sometimes you just couldn’t rely on people’s innate good sense. He hung the dress up on a nearby rack. “Face, you can do her hair and make-up,” he added, nodding at the random cosmetics he’d bought. The man _did_ own the most personal grooming products of any of them.

**

            It was very important that Maggie learn to play poker.

            Well, it was very important to Face, anyway. Maggie couldn’t care less.

            Face dealt the cards expertly and the others picked them up, each trying not to give away their hand while scrutinizing the others for clues. “Maggie, pick up your cards,” Face prompted. “No, don’t let anyone else see them,” he added of her careless perusal. Finally deciding on his own strategy, Face threw a few chips into the center of the table. Murdock followed suit, punctuating them with falling aircraft noises. Then B.A. tossed his in.

            “Your turn,” he grunted to Maggie, who was still staring at her cards with a blank expression.

            “Is red or black better?” she asked.

            Face tossed his cards down. “I fold!” he announced, even though it wasn’t his turn again yet. Then he stood and walked around to Maggie, kneeling next to her chair. “Lemme see your cards.”

            “You said not to let anyone see them,” she reminded him, holding them down to the table.

            “I folded, I’m out of the game,” he explained, trying to retain his patience. “Lemme see your cards.”

            “You said people would try to trick me in this game,” she noted shrewdly. “So, no.”

            “Maggie! I’m not trying to—“ Face glanced around the table for support and found the others snickering at him. He gritted his teeth and reached for her cards. “Stop being difficult, just—“

            She caught his wrist in a steely grip that could, should she choose, become painful. “Poker is not a full contact sport,” Hannibal finally intervened, not wanting to see bones broken. “Let him go. You can show him your cards. He folded.”

            “Oh, okay,” Maggie agreed, releasing Face.

            He rubbed his wrist and shot Hannibal a look that was _not_ one of gratitude. “Thank you,” he told the other man, only slightly sarcastic, and Hannibal chuckled. Face looked at Maggie’s cards. “Okay, you wanna bet five,” he told her. “Five chips. Five of _your_ chips. Put them in the middle.”

            “Thought you explained the rules to her already, Face,” B.A. muttered.

            “I read the rules,” Maggie assured him frostily.

            “Don’t be impatient, B.A.,” Hannibal advised, chomping on his cigar. He finally played his turn.

            “Yeah, don’t be impatient,” Face repeated, slightly obnoxious.

            “Don’t be—“ Murdock started to add, but B.A. growled at him.

            The stakes rose as the game proceeded and the pile of chips in the middle of the table grew bigger. There was a special pile off to the side for Murdock’s chips because he kept gnawing on them—to see if they were ‘real plastic’—and no one wanted Murdock drool on their chips. Eventually however, both he and B.A. had to fold. That left just Hannibal and Maggie. Hannibal had a superior talent for reading people, whether for missions or poker games. But Maggie was almost impossible to gauge under the _best_ circumstances. Plus, she didn’t care. Face, on the other hand, though an excellent con man, was easy to read if you knew him well. So Hannibal kept an eye on him instead of on Maggie.

            Who was not taking to the lesson well. “No, don’t do that,” Face told her. “Put this here. Leave that alone. Now, how much do you want to bet?”

            “Um… twenty,” she guessed.

            “No, you wanna bet ten,” Face corrected.

            “But I’ve still got lots of chips left.”

            “Yes, but you want to save some for the next play,” Face tried to tell her (again). “So maybe you’ll win _all_ the chips.”

            “What do I want with a bunch of plastic chips?” Maggie asked finally.

            Murdock and B.A. hooted, but Face saw this as a breakthrough. “No no no, I got it!” he insisted, grabbing a scrap of paper. “We gotta make the stakes something Maggie cares about. What’s your least favorite chore?” he asked her.

            “Washing the dishes,” she replied suspiciously, which he knew and was already scribbling down.

            He tossed the paper onto the pile of chips. “Okay, now if you win, you don’t have to do the dishes for a week,” he explained. Her expression changed minutely. “Yeah, that sweetens the pot for you, doesn’t it?” he went on with a delighted grin. “Now you _wanna_ win, don’t you?”

            “Give me the card again,” she decided, and Hannibal waited patiently while she read over the rules again. Poke strategy could be a useful thing for her to learn—at the very least, she would clean up in real games.

            “Study your opponent,” Face intoned dramatically. “Hannibal Smith in the wild. What does his behavior tell you about the cards he’s holding?”

            Maggie stared at the older man unnervingly. “I think they’re mostly red,” she judged randomly.

            Hannibal raised an eyebrow and tossed some more chips onto the pile. “He’s bluffing,” Face decided, “and he’s trying to buy his way out. Let’s call him and see what he’s got.”

            “Okay,” Maggie agreed. Hannibal laid down his cards, which were decent. Murdock and B.A. snickered in anticipation of Face’s fall. Then Maggie put down hers, which were better. Much delighted laughter ensued, from everyone but Maggie anyway.

            “I thought you were bluffing,” Hannibal told Face, astonishment mixed with admiration.

            “Nope,” Face grinned. He started to pull the pile of chips towards Maggie. “Here you go, Mags! You win! What’s wrong?” She was frowning.

            “You said if I won I _didn’t_ have to do the dishes,” she reminded him.

            “Right,” he agreed, mystified.

            “So I don’t want _that_ ,” she said, referring to the note Face had written. It just said, ‘wash dishes—one week,’ as he hadn’t thought he was writing an ironclad legal contract. “Hannibal lost so he gets this.” And she pushed the chips, and the offending note, back across the table.

            Face gave up at that point, resting his head on the table in frustration. “Maggie, Maggie, why do you do this to me?” he moaned as the others hassled him.

            For just an instant, a wicked smirk flashed across Maggie’s face. Hannibal nearly dropped his cigar in shock—then wondered if he had merely been imagining things. “Do what?” she asked, in her usual quizzical tone. “Let’s play again. I don’t like vacuuming, either.”

**

            Tough situation. But that’s what they specialized in. Hannibal had a plan, of course. Or at least, the others _hoped_ he did.

            “Throw them in the boxes,” Cabrera ordered with an evil grin, nodding towards the metal containers that baked in the heat of the yard. “It’s not much,” he added with the juvenile sarcasm petty dictators found so clever, “but at least you’ll each get your own room!” He laughed at his little witticism.

            Problem: There were only four boxes. Basic mathematics skills obviously weren’t a necessity for petty dictators.

            “You can put the girl in mine,” Hannibal offered cavalierly.

            “Which one of us is the girl again?” Murdock asked in a loud whisper.

            Cabrera barked out a laugh—at Hannibal, not Murdock. “You think you’re gonna get it on in the box?” he taunted, clearly finding his opponent reality-challenged.

            “Well, I might get bored,” Hannibal replied in a steely tone.

            Cabrera’s men found Hannibal’s nerve to be a little too admirably amusing for their boss’s sense of self-worth. Petty dictators were often secretly insecure and Cabrera would need to remind them that he was the one in charge here. So it was no surprise to Hannibal when Cabrera stalked over to the woman in the group, leered at her in an over-the-top way, and said, “No! This _senorita_ is going in _my_ box today!” The men laughed heartily at the lame innuendo.

            To punctuate his interest Cabrera reached out to grab the back of the woman’s neck and pull her closer. “Don’t touch her, you son-of-a—“ Face began furiously, surging forward.

            “Stand down, soldier!” Hannibal snapped, right as the younger man got whacked in the face with a rifle butt and fell to the dirt clutching his nose. There was always a loose screw in the plan somewhere.

            Cabrera and his men found the scuffle entertaining and it solidified his desire to take the woman into the house with him—so maybe that screw wasn’t so loose after all. Of course a different kind of woman would be more attractive to Cabrera—less athletic probably, and definitely with more fear in her face to make him feel powerful. Maggie remained unnaturally emotionless even when the crime lord pulled her close—but Hannibal didn’t really think that would be much of a deterrent. Most petty dictators weren’t terribly picky. B.A. growled behind Hannibal, but the older man gave him a quick shake of the head. They didn’t need _two_ broken noses in the group.

            “Throw them in the boxes!” Cabrera decreed with delight, dragging the woman back towards the house—although there really wasn’t much dragging involved as she came along rather docilely.

            “I _do_ like cubes,” Murdock sputtered in the background, “though I prefer spheres. Is there a sphere you can put me in?”

            “Don’t put me in the box next to this fool!” B.A. insisted. Hannibal said nothing, keeping an eye on Maggie as she walked away with Cabrera. Face just groaned.

**

            It was easy to lose track of time in the box. To say that it was soul-suckingly hot was a massive understatement. But Hannibal didn’t want to spend his time trying to describe the heat; instead he alternated between planning, and imagining every cold place or thing he could think of.

            For a while he could hear Murdock singing at the end of the row of boxes, and B.A. swearing and kicking at Murdock’s box. When the singing stopped, _that_ was when Hannibal started to get a little worried. Face stayed mostly quiet, though Hannibal could feel his anger through every vibration of the metal wall they shared.

            Hannibal moved past planning and cold imagery and into the part where he was just trying to stay conscious. He was about to do another check of his men when suddenly there was the crack of gunfire in the yard around them—yelling, more gunfire, yelling cut short by gunfire. Then, eerie silence.

            The lid of his box was pried open and the cool breeze of the desert—never thought that would seem _cool_ —brought him back to alertness. He stood, limbs shaky, trying to assess the remaining hazards in the yard while Maggie popped the lids on the other boxes.

            Face emerged as pale and sickly as Hannibal felt, though with the additional decoration of blood all over his shirt instead of inside his body. “Maggie! Are you okay?” he asked, stumbling as he tried to climb out of the box.

            Hannibal caught him before he could fall and eased him to the ground. “Easy, you’re dehydrated,” he understated, “and you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

            “I’m fine,” Maggie replied flatly. “Here’s some water.” She passed out liter bottles to everyone.

            “I’m good,” Murdock claimed, declining his. “I’ve been drinking my own urine. A little survival tip.”

            “Take the water,” Hannibal told him, so he did.

            B.A. was scanning the yard suspiciously, but like Hannibal he found no evidence of threats, just a few dead or dying thugs on the ground around them. “Where’s everybody at?” he demanded. “There were at least a dozen men…”

            “They’re in the house,” Maggie offered.

            “Dead?” Hannibal confirmed. “And Cabrera?”

            “Yes,” Maggie agreed flatly. “Did you want him alive?”

            “No, dead’s fine,” Hannibal assured her, helping Face to stand. “Come on, soldier, get up.”

            “You just killed, like, a dozen people,” Face realized, with a tone close to admiration, as Maggie slipped under one arm to help him along. He sounded slightly loopy as they staggered across the yard towards the garage.

            “Well, I wasn’t counting,” Maggie replied, grunting slightly under her burden. “Have you ever considered losing weight?”

            “ ‘S all muscle,” Face boasted.

            “Could you use more of it, then?”

            Face tried to pull away from her in what he thought was a helpful fashion and ended up knocking into Hannibal and nearly spilling all three of them to the ground. “Maggie!” Hannibal chided. Face was, in a word, kind of dense, but she’d already done her part in the plan—the others needed to be free to move in case any unexpected snags popped up.

            “Maggie!” Face echoed. “Where’s Maggie? She okay?”

            “I’m right here,” Maggie pointed out from under his arm.

            “I don’t know, he sounds kind of crazy, boss,” Murdock assessed with concern.

            “We’ll take him to a hospital once we get what we came for,” Hannibal promised. First they needed transportation, though—like the armored SUV sitting in the late warlord’s garage. B.A. thrummed the motor and they all piled in, still on the lookout for any survivors. “Pull up closer to the house.”

            “Are you okay, Maggie?” Face was asking earnestly for about the eighteenth time. “That guy was so… _fat_ and… _hairy_ ,” he judged with disgust.

            “ _You’re_ rather hairy,” Maggie observed, rolling down her window. “Bushes, eight o’clock.” She fired her pistol once and picked off someone crawling from the yard. “And you _do_ weigh a lot, even if it’s all muscle.”

            They pulled up to the backyard of the isolated house and Hannibal climbed out of the air-conditioned vehicle with some regret. “B.A., come with me,” he ordered. “We’ll get the discs and get out of here.” They snagged a couple of guns from the corpses lying around on their way in.

            “You know, I kind of liked that box,” Murdock was saying as they left. “I may get one for home use.”

            “Did you just kill someone?” Face asked Maggie from where he’d collapsed in her lap. “I love it when you kill people!” Maggie, at least, kept a sharp eye out, weapon handy—however comforting _that_ was.

            “Damaged goods, Hannibal,” B.A. muttered, glancing back at the SUV. “Big box of damaged goods.”

            “Aren’t we all,” Hannibal commented dryly. And they hadn’t even seen what kind of mess Maggie had made of the _inside_ of the house yet.

 

**

            “So, here’s the plan,” Hannibal announced, going over the broad strokes first. As usual, it was in the details that things got complicated.

            “How we gonna get Marshall’s access cards?” B.A. asked, and rightly so.

            “They’ll be in his apartment,” Hannibal began.

            “Smash and grab?” Face guessed, but the older man shook his head.

            “If he realizes the cards have been stolen, or even suspects there’s been a break-in, he’ll have them cancelled immediately,” Hannibal judged. “So we’re going to make him invite us in.”

            Murdock was very excited by this. “I’ve been working on my Chinese food delivery guy act!” he declared. “I almost fool myself sometimes.”

            “You got the ‘fool’ part right,” B.A. muttered.

            “Keep working, Murdock, it’ll come in handy,” Hannibal assured him. “But in this case, our principle player will be… Maggie.”

            All eyes turned to the woman typing on her ever-present laptop, who slowly looked up.

            “I don’t mean to be critical, boss,” Murdock ventured, “but she doesn’t really look like a Chinese food delivery guy.”

            “You’ll have to wear a dress, and get your hair and make-up done,” Hannibal warned her.

            “ _Again_?” she replied distastefully.

            “Why?” asked Face, greatly suspicious.

            “Because Maggie and our mark, David Marshall, have been getting to know one another online for the last couple weeks,” Hannibal explained, “and now they’re going to meet for the first time. And you’re going to get him to take you back to his apartment,” he added to Maggie.

            This would have been a rather routine deception for Face to pull off. But Maggie was hardly a femme fatale. Fatale, yes, but femme? Not so much. The noises of disbelief Hannibal heard, including from Maggie herself, bore this out.

            “Face can teach her how to flirt,” he added off-hand, as if it were no great matter.

            “S-s-s-seriously?” Face sputtered. He looked like his head was about to explode—whether that was good or bad, he couldn’t say.

            “Couldn’t I just—learn Chinese or something?” Maggie asked.

            “I have great faith in you,” Hannibal assured her.

**

            The van was parked a block away from the coffee shop, close enough to intervene if there was trouble, but far enough away to avoid suspicion, hopefully. The three men inside it were huddled around the various monitors it carried, watching the patrons of the coffee shop through the cameras they’d hidden there earlier.

            “Why you never see any black people in these places?” B.A. observed.

            “Foam is scary,” Murdock offered. It was unclear whether this was related to B.A.’s question or not.

            “Would _you_ pay four dollars for a cup of coffee?” Hannibal asked dryly.

            The back of the van opened and Face climbed in, shaking off the rain that was falling steadily outside. “Maggie’s on her way,” he reported, hunkering down. “I hope this weather doesn’t make her hair frizz up. I spent a lot of time on it.”

            “ _I_ hope it doesn’t short out her earrings,” Hannibal countered, as they contained a tracking device _and_ a microphone so they could listen in on the conversation.

            “There’s Marshall,” B.A. pointed out, gesturing toward the monitor. A man in a dark suit had just entered the coffee shop.

            “Guess he found a green carnation to wear,” Face commented, the accessory that would allow his online ‘friend’ to recognize him. “How’d you think of that, anyway, Murdock?”

            The other man shrugged modestly. “Old song I heard once.”

            As they waited for Maggie to show up, Face began to get nervous. “I just don’t know if she can pull this off,” he confessed. “I mean, maybe _I_ should’ve done it.” Slowly the others turned to look at him. “Well, obviously that would only work if the guy was gay,” he conceded.

            “Obviously,” Hannibal agreed, shaking his head slightly as he turned back to the monitors. Well, it was good to know Face was willing to play the ‘gay’ card if necessary, he supposed.

            “Say, who’d you get to write all the emails that are supposed to be from Maggie?” Murdock wanted to know.

            “Favor from an old friend,” Hannibal revealed. “But she’s not really his type.”

            “Member of the hot granny club?” B.A. teased. “Hannibal, you been holdin’ out on us!”

            He chose not to dignify that with a response. “Here’s Maggie,” he noted, and they all fixed their eyes on the screen as their teammate entered the coffee shop.

            “Her hair still looks okay,” Face saw with relief.

            “I like the natural look with the make-up,” Hannibal complimented him. “It’s subtle.”

            “And, she ain’t fallin’ down in them high heels anymore,” B.A. offered.

            “Yeah, that took a lot of work,” Face agreed.

            Then Maggie finally took off her dark raincoat. “Yowza,” proclaimed Murdock.

            “Maybe the red dress was too much,” Face worried, eyes glued to the screen along with everyone else.

            “D—n,” B.A. agreed. “Look at her workin’ it as she walks.”

            “I told her not to do it so much,” Face grumbled. “She looks like she’s about to throw a hip.” The others did not seem to think so.

            “ _David? I’m Lena_ ,” they heard her say, her earrings picking up her introduction to the mark.

            “Look at that dweeb,” Face taunted. “He’s speechless. Yeah, you know she’s _way_ too good for you, buddy.” Hannibal slid a careful glance over at the younger man, then looked back at the monitors.

            Maggie’s performance was truly impressive. She was interested without being fawning, flirtatious without being bold, charming without being fake. The mark was hooked. So was someone else.

            “That is the most I ever heard her say before,” B.A. noted.

            “Ooh, the hair flip is so rad,” Murdock enthused, continuing his obsession with ‘80’s slang. “Did you teach her that, Face? Face?” he prompted.

            The other man was staring at the monitors with his jaw tense and his eyes narrowed. “She is practically _falling_ out of that dress,” he judged, sounding as if this were a bad thing.

            “You dressed her, didn’t you?” B.A. pointed out.

            “And she’s laying it on way too thick,” Face went on in complaint, almost irritated. “He’s not going to buy it.”

            “Oh, I think he’s very much buying it,” Hannibal countered, pleased.

            On the screen, the enchanted Marshall reached out and rested his hand on Maggie’s and she smiled fetchingly. Face drew a sharp breath. “That b-----d!” he exclaimed and scrambled out the back of the van.

            Hannibal prevented the others from following. “It’s okay, let him go,” he decided. “It was almost his cue anyway.”

            For a minute or two nothing changed on the coffee shop monitors, just more of Maggie and the mark making googly eyes at each other. Then Maggie glanced towards the door and her expression became peeved.

            “ _What is it?_ ” Marshall asked with concern.

            “ _It’s my ex_ ,” Maggie sighed. “ _He’s such a jerk_ —“ The bell dinged above the coffee shop door and Face stomped into view, shedding water everywhere. “ _Chris, what are you doing here?_ ” asked Maggie in exasperation.

            “ _What am_ I _doing here? What are_ you _doing here?_ ” Face sputtered, giving them both the evil eye. “ _Who’s this jacka-s?_ ”

            B.A. and Murdock snickered in the van. “Don’t bury yourself in the part,” Hannibal advised, although the younger man couldn’t hear him.

            Onscreen, Face was doing an excellent job of portraying Maggie’s virulently jealous ex-boyfriend, whom Marshall had of course heard stories of in ‘her’ emails. “ _You dump me for_ this _guy?_ ” he snapped. “ _What is he, like, an_ accountant _or something?_ ”

            “ _He has a_ profession,” Maggie countered nastily. “ _He doesn’t sit around all day playing video games and grooming himself!_ ”

            “Snap!” Murdock approved.

            Maggie apologized profusely for Face’s behavior and stood, suggesting they leave. That was when Face accused Marshall of shoving him and hit the other man—a glancing blow compared to what Face was really able to do, but enough to draw blood from the mark and shocked gasps from the other coffee shop patrons. It was also enough to compel the coffee shop owner—who was definitely not one of those pacifist hippie java connoisseurs—to pull his shotgun out and aim it at Face.

            “ _Come on, let’s go,_ ” Maggie urged her wounded companion. “ _Is there a—someplace to clean up—_ “ They scurried out in the rain and caught a cab.

            “ _My apartment’s not far_ ,” Marshall offered, shaken as one who works behind a desk naturally would be after such an encounter.

            “Let’s go,” Hannibal instructed B.A., who slid behind the wheel of the van. They started off to Marshall’s apartment building via an alternate route.

            “Uh, what about Face, boss?” Murdock asked, digging out some props.

            “He’ll catch up,” Hannibal assured him. “Besides, it’ll do him good to walk around in the rain for a while.” He glanced back at the screen where Face had been unceremoniously kicked out of the coffee shop.

            They parked the van a block away from the tony apartment building. “Try to look inconspicuous,” Hannibal advised the two other men dryly. Before him B.A. was dressed in twenty-five pounds of gold chains and carried a stack of pizza boxes, while Murdock held a bag of Chinese food boxes and a far too determined expression. “Go get ‘em.”

            Hannibal watched the tracking device indicating Maggie on the monitor as he listened to her express appropriate concern and horror to Marshall. Even though he was one of their mission’s villains, Hannibal felt a little sorry for him—he was on track to get his heart thoroughly broken by the too-good-to-be-true ‘Lena.’ B.A. and Murdock signaled that they were in position near Marshall’s apartment, ready to bust in if Maggie needed back-up.

            The back of the van opened and Face scrambled in, collapsing on the floor in a wet heap. For a moment he just tried to catch his breath. Then he let out a primal groan and pounded his fists on the floor. Hannibal ruffled his wet hair approvingly. “Good job, kid.”

            “I don’t think I can take it anymore!” Face replied in despair. “Did you see how she smiled at him? And glared at me? J---s, it was like she really loathed me!”

            “Acting is a gift,” Hannibal pontificated. “You were very convincing yourself.”

            “Did you—did you _know_ that guy had a shotgun?” Face asked suddenly.

            “Of course,” Hannibal assured him. “That’s why I told you to wear—“ His pat of Face’s back did not reveal the bulk of body armor under his jacket.

            “I knew I forgot _something_ ,” Face admitted. He heard Maggie’s voice over the speakers and sat up, instantly alert. “Oh my G-d, is she in his apartment?” She was not only in his apartment, she was also tending his wounds with apparently appropriate care. “I’m gonna throw up,” Face threatened. Indeed, he did look rather green, though Hannibal didn’t think nausea was the problem. “’Baby’? She called him ‘baby’?! That’s so wrong!”

            “Quiet down,” Hannibal told him fruitlessly.

            “ _Hannibal says, stop your jabberin’_ ,” B.A. snapped to Murdock over their connection.

            “ _He wasn’t talking to me, he was talking to Face!_ ” Murdock singsonged annoyingly.

            “Shut up, _all_ of you,” their leader clarified.

            This order held for about thirty seconds. “She’s going in his _bedroom_?!” Face gasped with horror. “Hannibal, how far did you tell her to _go_ for this mission?!”

            “ _Face,_ you _been in so many bedrooms_ —“ B.A. began, but Face wasn’t listening to him.

            “What’s happening now? Why’s it quiet?” he demanded.

            Hannibal clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder to hold him still. “She spilled coffee on her dress, remember?” he explained. “She’s looking for the access cards while supposedly cleaning it.”

            A quick whistle over the microphone indicated Maggie had found the cards. A moment later, the information encoded on them began streaming through the van’s computer systems, courtesy of the tiny scanner in Maggie’s purse. “Perfect,” Hannibal praised with satisfaction.

            “But what’s she going to do _now_?” Face complained. “Have some wine and watch a movie with him?” He made these activities sound somehow dirty.

            “Hush.”

            On the speakers Maggie told Marshall what a great time she’d had, aside from when her psychotic ex tried to kill him. “D—n right,” Face muttered vengefully. Then she graciously excused herself and left his apartment under her own volition.

            A few minutes later B.A. and Murdock appeared again. “Fool be eatin’ that fake Chinese food,” B.A. muttered.

            “Just because you can’t broaden your mind to appreciate the food of other cultures—“ Murdock began to chastise.

            “It’s Styrofoam packing peanuts, fool!”

            Quickly they drove to the rendezvous point and soon there was a knock on the van door. Face opened it and gave Maggie a narrow look. “Finally done playing Mata Hari, huh?” he accused.

            “What?” Maggie asked, her expression dialed back down to its usual minimal level.

            “Let her in,” Hannibal reminded Face. “Well done, Maggie!” As soon as she stepped inside the van there was applause from her teammates, except of course for Face, who crossed his arms over his chest defensively.

            “Knew you could do it,” Murdock insisted. “You and your feminine wiles.”

            “You ruined your dress!” Face pointed out petulantly, even though that was part of the plan.

            Maggie plopped down on the floor of the van in an unladylike way, struggling to unbuckle her high heeled shoe. “How do you get this off again?” she asked Face, holding her foot up to him for help and probably flashing him.

            He knelt down and took her foot in his lap, undoing the buckle for her. “You didn’t have to giggle so much,” he criticized, but with less force.

            “I don’t like giggling,” Maggie told him flatly. “It makes my throat hurt. Will you make me some eggs when we get home?” The request seemed to placate Face somewhat.

            “I’ve got some Chinese food here,” Murdock offered, popping a chunk of Styrofoam into his mouth.

            “Sure, I’ll make you some eggs,” Face agreed. “But, you have to promise you won’t do any missions like this again. They’re too dangerous.” For Face, at least.


End file.
